Image credits: The Pin Up Rebels
I’m going to say the thing that you’re not suppose to admit out loud as a woman: I. Love. My. Boobs.
I mean – I really, really, really love my breasts (or tits if you’re feeling nasty). I love how they look, how firm they are, and how comforting it feels to tuck my hands under my armpits, and rest my palms on them like a hand bra. I love how their shape conspires with my equally big butt to trick the rest of the world that I own a Kardashians trademark hourglass figure. And I absolutely love the moments when they’re being adored by my partners behind closed doors. But it took me a while to be a fangirl of my girls.
I was an A-cup my whole life and never really thought much of it. Except for that one time when I was home alone at 12 and picked up a tiny jewellery box, the kind that stored earrings, and I’d cupped it over my little buds. I was hoping it would at least fill up that tiny container so I could upgrade to a real bra with cups instead of a singlet (as us Asian Millennials would remember). Alas, the best my girls and I could do was to fill a padded bralette. So by the time I was 18, I’d quit holding my breath that I’ll inherit my mother’s hefty cleavage.
Then I moved to New York and discovered cheap pizza and Taco Bell, gained the infamous Freshman 15, and lo and behold, B cups! I was pretty pleased as it meant that I won’t be mistaken as a skinny Asian boy walking down the streets but instead I could get away with plunging necklines from Forever 21 and still be seen as edgy instead of slutty. Fast forward a decade later, I moved back home to Singapore and got hooked for a couple of months on old-fashioned soya milk (Unisoy Instant Soy Milk to be exact). It was my mum who noticed it first, “When did your boobs get so big?”
“I’ve no idea but I need new bras…” so I headed to Marks & Spencers to be fitted. The salesgirl took her measuring tape, glanced down and mumbled my size at first. “Sorry, are you sure? The number’s right but I think the cup is wrong…”. She wrapped her tape against my bosom again, “Nope, you’re definitely a D”. There was a part of me that was stunned at skipping a letter in between, but I couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear in that M&S dressing room. It’s the only other moment where I didn’t mind getting a D (raises one eyebrow knowingly).
With that core memory in place, my boobs immediately bumped my other favourite features off their rankings and went straight to the top (Sorry about that butt, eyes, smile, lips, hair and legs in that order…). Even though my wardrobe needed an overhaul because nothing would fit; a fortune was spent on hunting for new bras that weren’t stuffed like pillows; and I learned of new first world problems that came with the upgrade (Talking to you Underboob Sweat!), I was a massive fan of my new bosom. My partners were just as thrilled with my tits, if not more so than moi. My running joke when I get a new fan of my breasts as they admire them up close and personal is “Do you like them? I grew them myself…”
So, I totally understand why my mum kept the lump she found in her left breast to herself.
Because our boobs aren’t just our boobs. They’re part of our identity as the feminine. They don’t always belong just to us. They belong to our lovers, children and society too. Each pair holds literal power, imbued to them through pure function as a sustenance source, and as markers in a patriarchal society that rewards attractiveness and sexuality. For me, they empower me with the confidence and sensuality to strut around with my cleavage on display and flirt with cute boys. For my mum, they served a higher purpose by nourishing her three children. So why would something you hold so dear and literally next to your heart betray you?
Maybe if she pretended it wasn’t there, it would go away.
But of course it didn’t and we know how that story went.
It was the day after a frisky rendezvous when it started. A sharp stabbing pain that came out of nowhere in my left chest, beneath my breast. I was already nursing a cough that week and so when I coughed that morning at breakfast alone, an electric jolt went right through me and woke me up quicker than coffee in that post-glow haze, “Fuck, what was that?”
I coughed again, the pain shooting through my left breast like a long thin needle and hurt so much that I had to cup my left boob and press it down in place to dampen the aftershocks. “Fuck, that hurts” Now I’ve been told I’ve an unusually high tolerance of pain so what feels like a 5 to me, might be someone’s 7. But it wasn’t just the pain that was making me lightheaded and taking in shallow breaths. It was the fact that I was now grasping my boob in the very same place where I’d tattooed my mum’s name as a defiance against the same spot where her tumour first grew. “Fuck, ok I’m sure it’ll go away”
But it didn’t. And as my coughing fits remained, the electric jolts got sharper to the point where I didn’t care that I was in the middle of the office grabbing onto my left boob in a poor attempt to stifle the pain. I confided in a colleague as she noticed me cursing as I manhandled my breast while trying to repress a cough. “I think you should visit a doctor.”
It’d been a week and a half by then.
Yes, a week and a half of burying my head in the sand. Maybe if I pretend it’s not there, it’ll go away.
But I’m my mother’s daughter and when we first walked into the hospital ward the day after she was admitted 4 years ago, her very first words to my sister and I were “Please go get your breasts checked soon. Don’t be like me. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I was in the midst of texting Mr Rendezvous who asked me what was I up to. I told him in a half hesitant and half joking approach, “Oh I’m just at the polyclinic. My boob’s been hurting since I last saw you… I guess the sex was a little too rough.” He knew of my mother’s history. “Oh,” he paused, “I”m sure it’s nothing but it’s good to get it checked.”
“Ahuh…just to be safe,” I texted back while biting my lip and trying to quell the anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I’m usually good at doctors and hospitals, in the sense that I will show up and have no shame in describing at great detail what I’m feeling and letting them poke and prod me. But other than that, I don’t watch Grey’s Anatomy so I’m not familiar with medical terms, nor am I the type who googles her symptoms and take screenshots to the doctor for his prescription. Also little known fact: I’ve a phobia of blood and gore since I was a child.
This was different though. I’d purposely picked a polyclinic that has a mammogram machine. Just in case.
“Baby, it’s probably nothing,” I braced myself as I pushed the doctor’s door and walked in together with my sister.
I don’t remember much about the doctor apart that she was young, pleasant and spoke with a calm and assured voice. I sat down, took a deep breath and with the same measured tone she had, jumped straight into describing my symptoms, my family history of breast cancer, and even the theory that maybe it was a sexy dalliance that was the catalyst of this injury. There’s a part of me that plays this blasé character on purpose. That if I mirrored the nonchalant and calm tone of a doctor instead of the true hysterical, fearful high-pitched voice I have in my head, they’ll take my pain seriously and not dismiss it as my imagination. But of course, I pause in my script and smile with closed lips, I just want to check and be sure.
She looked at my report and saw that I was still 38 years old. She apologised as she could not order a mammogram for me yet despite shy of four months to 39, and a year to go for the big 4-0. I knew the rules but I’ve never wanted to be older as much as I did at that point. Instead, she asked if I could remove my top and let her examine me to see if she could detect any lumps and the exact point of pain. Sure, I said. But I knew what would happen next as she felt my left breast slowly and firmly in segments. She won’t be able to feel anything as my boobs are too dense. And as her fingers deftly pressed its circumference, she came across the general source of discomfort.
“There,” I winced.
“Here?”, she pressed again.
As my left breast got squished next to my armpit, I got confused. Is this an actual pain or is it because she’s pressing against it?? Crap, now I’m not so sure.
“Mmm.. yeah?”
“How about this part?”
My heart races, “Yes? Wait, no… mmm a little bit but not as painful.”
“Ok, what about here? Is there pain?”
“Can you try again?”
One of my fears has manifested, my mind has now become an unreliable narrator.
She asked me to put my top on. Honestly, she tells me, she can’t detect any lumps but that’s because my breasts are too dense. (Cue, I told you so, in my head) Maybe it is indeed a muscle pull from sexy times and so she’ll give me some painkillers, ask me to keep an eye on it and come back in two weeks. Whatever the outcome, she said she’ll request for an ultrasound to check on it when I come back. Just to be sure.
Fast forward two weeks later and while it’d dampened down substantially, the pain was just as stubborn as my cough. It was still there. It was no longer a jolt but more of a slight ache that would wane and wax. I didn’t have to grope myself with each cough but yes, it was still there. Was it worth going down to the doctor? “Come on baby,” I cajoled myself, “Let’s get that ultrasound. Just in case.”
I swung the door open and instead of the sweet pleasant doctor previously, it was a male one with two interns in the background diligently taking notes. I’d a feeling that would happen, it was a polyclinic after all so it would have been difficult to get the same doctor since they’re on rotation. He was still relatively young in his 30’s and I’d repeated my script with the same measured calm tone. I finished and waited for him to tell me, “Ok, let’s get you that ultrasound.”
Instead, “Ok, do you mind if I let my intern examine you while I supervise?”
In a split second, my mind time-travelled four years back to my mother’s side in the hospital ward. She was a natural storyteller (so I’ve to thank her for that and not only my boobs) and she was regaling us with her experience in the hospital so far. She shared how early that morning, a group of interns crowd around her as the doctors asked if she consented to being examined so they can all see and feel her breasts. My mum’s eyes had shone and she laughed with glee as she recounted feeling proud as for being a star in her part to serve the community as a study for future doctors. My siblings and I smiled and laughed with her as we eyed each other uneasily when she wasn’t looking. ‘Oh mummy,’ I thought to myself,’ they won’t bring interns on rounds to examine a specific case unless it was really unusual or bad.’ Little did I know back then that she no longer had breasts, the tumours had metastasized and eaten them both up completely. That’s why she had an audience.
Back to reality, I smiled and said “Sure, of course.” I’m doing my part to serve the community for future doctors.
I felt the nervousness of the female intern emanate as she quietly asked for my consent and gingerly examined my breast. She reminded me of my first doctor albeit with more care and slight hesitance as she pressed against each segment. I could her relax as she got more confident stating out loud to her mentor what she felt (or not feel) in this case. As he took over and repeated the same steps, I knew what was going to happen next.
“So, we can’t feel any lumps. But don’t worry, usually pain is not a symptom of breast cancer so you can continue taking the painkillers but I’ll refer you to the breast clinic at NUH for your ultrasound.”
Oh hold on a minute, I didn’t expect that, “Can’t you do it here today?”
“Sorry, we don’t have the equipment here for that unfortunately but we’ll try to get the earliest appointment we can.”
Another suspenseful wait.
It was my first time at the NUH Medical Centre building. How fascinating and bizarre that they’d an assortment of clothing stores, book store, snacks, cafes, restaurants, supermarkets all housed into the same building where questions of mortality come into play.
Up to the 8th floor I went, together with my stoic sister. She’s taken leave to be by my side each time I’d a doctor’s appointment, and I am forever grateful for her presence.
As we sat in the vast waiting room with expansive windows that stretched across the floor, I couldn’t help but be struck at how crowded it was. The 8th floor housed both the Breast Care Centre and the Radiation Therapy Centre. I didn’t know whether to be saddened or comforted by the observation.
“Miss Noorindah Iskandar?”
Finally, a specialist. I took a deep breath and left my sister in the waiting room.
As I passed through the doors, I was hit by the stark difference from my previous visits. My doctor was a lady with a commanding presence and obvious seniority. Her voice was strict and she went straight to the point as she read my files out loud. I repeated my song and dance I’ve memorized by now. “So…” I got to the end of my script, “Can I get that ultrasound since I can’t have a mammogram?”
And here’s where I leave you until next week for Part Two…